


Corsair

by QueerSherlockian (Anglophile_Fiend)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M, Teenlock, Unilock, balletlock, no one is underage, rugbyjohn, rugbylock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-12
Updated: 2014-09-03
Packaged: 2018-02-08 14:36:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1944867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anglophile_Fiend/pseuds/QueerSherlockian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I love the idea that in every universe John and Sherlock always find one another. So, in this they're both away at University. Ballet dancer Sherlock meets up with BMOC John who's captain of the rugby team, and then they fall in love, but will it be enough to keep them together.... (tags will be updated as I post chapters.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mid-day

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by the wonderful amazing perfection that is Dom over at epicene-ster.tumblr.com

“One-and two-and three-and a four, ARGH! Okay, one-and two-and three-and a fou-agh!” Sherlock mutters to himself with increasing frustration as he runs through the counts of his routine. His eyes flick between his reflection in the wall of mirrors and his long black-clad legs as they bend and stretch with each strenuous movement.

This new routine is exceptionally difficult, as it’s the only male solo in their upcoming winter production of “Le Corsaire”. Sherlock is certain he has the double cabriole in arabesque down pat, but the grand jeté  into seven pirouettes is thoroughly evading him. “FUCK!” he shrieks, falling out of his turn for the tenth time today. Auditions for the part are in less than two weeks, and at this rate Sherlock won’t be considered for any role at all, let alone a solo.

“This is fucking _impossible_!” he laments, smacking a hand loudly onto the barre, causing it to wobble and throw off chalk. The other dancers continue practicing without batting an eye, but Ballet Master Borisov was not so accommodating.

“Holmes! Behave!” his battle-axe of an instructor admonishes him for what also must be the tenth time today. “No, forget that. Stop. You leave now,” he commands with his clipped Slavic accent and a dismissive hand gesture.

Sherlock looks sullenly up from his feet. “Fine. This is dull!” Indignantly storming out of the practice room, he finds himself wishing he was wearing better heels for stomping, but instead he has to settle for a stroppy shuffle in his ballet slippers.

“And don’t return till you behave like proper gentleman!” the Ballet Master shouts to Sherlock’s back as he slinks away.

 

In the quiet changing area, Sherlock doesn’t bother taking his dance clothes off; instead he throws a blue hoodie over the paper-thin black unitard, and releases his flurry of black curls from their tie, shakes them out, and wipes his whole head with a dry flannel. He finishes by winding a matching scarf around his long, pale throat, and flings his slippers into a small duffel. He’s not angry with his instructor; his volley of insults are solely directed inward. Already deep in his mind palace, Sherlock reviews his failings- he holds himself to a high standard of perfection, and he's thoroughly dismayed with his recent performance. Back in his home county he was seen as a marvel, a genius, a prodigy, but now that he’s a first year in a University with a top-notch program, he has more competition than ever before. The bar had been raised, and the stress was getting to him.

 

Sherlock steps into his warm knit boots by the door before leaving the building in a huff with his head ducked down, and he silently berates himself. He hates when his ‘transport’ fails to perform; he won't be satisfied until he has mastered the routine and won the solo. He knows that he should head to the commons to eat, but all he wants to do is to slip into the tub for a long soak. His thoughts are focused on the sumptuous bath he’ll take, with his handmade candles, oils, and bubbles. He mentally thanks his parents for being able to afford a single suite with its own private bathroom.

 

In fact, before Sherlock makes it to the pavement, he’s so caught up in his plans that he completely fails to notice the slight blonde striding into his path until they collide into one another and end up a heap of tangled limbs. Sherlock knows that thanks to this idiot, he will no doubt suffer some serious bruises. He’s about to let loose a string of curses that would make a sailor blush, but suddenly, before the words can escape his lips, he’s transfixed by the sight in front of him: a pair of the most exquisite blue eyes, framed by white-blonde lashes. Sherlock forgets to breathe.

 

“Sorry, mate. That was my fault.” The other boy fails to notice anything wrong as he scrambles to his feet, and extends a hand to Sherlock. “I’m awfully sorry, I wasn’t paying attention. I was busy thinking about plays.”

Sherlock is still frozen when the small tanned hand wraps around his arm and inelegantly pulls him upright. The jolt finally starts his breathing, and the boy's words sink in. _Theatre_? Sherlock thinks. _D _id this beautiful person say something about a play?__

“What was that about a play?” he’s finally able to ask while adjusting his clothes, and brushing off invisible dirt.

“Huh? Oh, Double Loops, mainly,” the blonde stranger replies with a breathy hesitation, openly staring at Sherlock’s silver eyes. He wipes his hand on his jeans before extending it out. “Uh…Hi! I’m John Watson, by the way, and erm…apologies for knocking you over. Are ya alright?”

“Mmm,” Sherlock replies with an affirmative grunt. “Sherlock Holmes, pleasure. Double Loops? I’ve never heard of that play before. Is it new?”

“Really?” John responds, clearly surprised. “ Nope, it’s an oldie but a goodie... Well, as soon as I can get my guys to execute it properly, it will be!” He lets out a small laugh at his own joke.

“Oh, are you a director?” Sherlock theorizes. Despite the overwhelming look of nervousness on John's face, Sherlock can observe clear signs that he possesses strong leadership abilities.

“Director? Ha, no, I’m captain of the rugby league. Go Quaker Grey and Red!”

John pumps a fist before he jerks a thumb towards the pitch across the street from the ballet studio. “Just came from helping Coach run the guys through some tough double loop plays. It was brutal out there!” John smiles wide up at Sherlock, waiting for a positive response.

“Oh.” Sherlock says, voice dripping with disappointment and drags his eyes over John’s body, finally taking in all the clues he needs to deduce that this boy is utterly ordinary, and Sherlock immediately loses interest.

John responds by giving his own once over, noticing Sherlock’s tights. “You a ballerina?”

“No. Male ballet dancer,” Sherlock replies haughtily. “Unlike dull sports, ballet is actually challenging.” He decides it’s time to end this little waste of time by sidestepping around John.

John, however, copies Sherlock's movements to remain in front of him. “Wait! Rugby, dull? No! No way, I assure you, it’s anything but dull.”

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes, clearly annoyed at being prevented from his goal. He crosses his arms while glaring at John’s stocky, but clearly fit frame, which is blocking his exit.

“Why don’t you come to a match, and let me show you?” John licks his lips unconsciously. Sherlock feels an unusual tingle in his gut at the sight, but he squashes down the feeling and replaces it with irritation at being held up. He realizes that he will likely have to resort to drastic measures to get out of there soon.

“John, I can tell you’ve come from a blue-collar, working class family. That sport was your admission to Lancaster, and thus you value it highly. But I can promise you that no matter how much you excel at bashing the brains out of your opponent, your alcoholic father isn’t going to change his ways, but your doting mother will always adore you, so why don't you ask her to a 'match'.” Sherlock declares with open sarcasm.

John stands stock still for a moment, jaw hanging open but no sound escapes. Sherlock takes the pause as his opportunity to leave. He tightens his scarf and steps around the frozen young man.

“Brilliant!” John bursts out.

Now it’s Sherlock’s turn to stop dead in his tracks, eyes blown wide.

“Did you really get all of that, just by looking at me? Wow, Sherlock- you’re a fucking genius!”

Sherlock spins around in shock. “That’s not what most people say.”

“Oh yeah, what do they say?” John steps until he’s in front of Sherlock again.

“Fuck off,” Sherlock answers, while looking at his boots digging into the soft dirt.

“What? But that was bloody amazing!” John retorts in confusion.

Sherlock’s cheeks turn an alarming shade of pink before he ducks his head shyly. “Thank you, John,” he mutters.

“You’re welcome. Hey, do you think you could come do that for my mates? I bet you’re a riot at parties!” John asks.

“Noooooo. I must be off.” Sherlock spins away, cheeks heating up again, and without another word, he dashes off into the closest alleyway.

“Wait, Sherlock! Wait! I was only kidding! Sherlock!” John yells, and moves to follow suit, but when he reaches the corner he knows his yelling is futile. He can no longer see even so much as one black curl.

“Shite,” John reprimands himself. He turns away from the maze of buildings and alleys, shoves fists into his jacket pockets, and gives the dance studio one last look. “Hmmm, “ he ponders, committing the building to memory before heading to his rooms.

 


	2. A Chance Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John makes some interesting choices...

John’s not exactly certain how he came to be on the kerb just outside the school’s ballet studio at six o’clock at night, but it might have something to do with the bottle of lager he’s holding. Well, not that bottle, but its five friends that he's just downed. He was supposed to bring a sixer to a party at one of his teammates’ rooms, but instead he’d gone for a seemingly purposeless walk and drank the beers himself, rationalizing that he needed time to think. His brain was too full of unconscious desires, and he had no one to talk to about anything serious.

 

He couldn’t get that dancer with the odd name out of his head. _Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes_ , he rolled the name around _, the more you say it, the more lovely it sounds. No, no,_ _no I cannot be interested in this stranger- it's gotta be the surprising way we met,_ he infers, _it can’t be real attraction_. _I’ve never fancied a bloke before, and I’m certainly not going to start my last year of Uni._ What he couldn’t deny, however, was that Sherlock had haunted him for days. Everywhere he went, he saw those eyes; _those beautiful color-changing eyes, which see right through to the heart of me, and make my pulse jump at the mere thought of them._

 

John tries to shift his focus to the sunset, but its gorgeous streaks of colour only reminds him again of Sherlock’s eyes, and suddenly he feels like his skin is on fire and like he can feel the earth spinning. He lies back on a patch of craggy weeds, still damp from the days drizzle, and lets the coolness seep into his flushed skin to tamper the spinning a bit, which makes him feel a bit better, but his mind is anything but at ease. Still holding the half-finished beer, he uses his other hand to cover his eyes in an attempt to block the visions of the handsome, and brilliant Sher-. “DAMN!” he berates himself aloud in an attempt to stem the tide of cheekbones and long legs. “You’re so s-s-s-stupid,” he slurs in increasing volume. “Why-Why are you even here?” John asks rhetorically.

 

“Excellent question indeed, John. Why _are_ you here?” A sultry baritone rumbles overhead, and John’s hand flies from his face, eyes widening in shock at the confirmation of his worst fears; he’s looking up into the image he had just barely recovered from daydreams of only moments before- a sight more beautiful than any sunset.

“Uh. Oh, Sh-Sh-Sherlock. Hey. Hey there.” John sputters as he sits up, and the world spins yet again. He drags up a hand to his temple, attempting to massage the vertigo away.

“That is not an answer to the question,” Sherlock retorts, with his large but delicate hands resting on narrow hips, and a pinched look upon his face.

John tries to stand up quickly, but the alcohol wins that battle, and he stumbles a few times before making it fully upright.

“I…wasth…uh…I was bringing beer… to a party.” John finishes, and triumphantly gestures to the bottle in hand, as if he’s just proven a doctoral thesis.

Sherlock’s mouth quirks at a crease, and he decides to draw out the torture a bit longer. “Tut tut, John. Those are lies. Try again,” Sherlock snaps with only a mild increase in annoyance.

John took a gulp of air to stall for time, and racked his brain for a plausible excuse. The only thought supplied, however was, _his eyes are even more astonishing than I remembered_. His vision has started to blur, and now there are two Sherlocks stamping their boots in the rapidly cooling evening air.

“Okay, the truth is…” _TELL HIM_ , John’s mind screams at him, but John can’t scrounge up the courage. “The truth is, I wanna take ballet.” He stares up into Sherlock's ethereal face for a reaction.

“Oh,” Sherlock replies puzzled.

 

John shoves fists into his jacket pockets to hide his nerves, stammering through the silence. “Yeah, um…I read an article that said footballers and ruggers could improve their skills by taking ballet. And since I’m being scouted for the pros, I thought I would step my game up and learn.” John lets the lies roll off his tongue with ease, hoping Sherlock will buy the fabrication.

“And yet you show up here drunk? That makes no sense, John,” Sherlock observes, quirking an eyebrow.

John pauses to search for another more plausible answer. “Right, well, I’m nervous. I’ve never done it before, and I DO NOT want my mates to find out what I’m doing.”

“Embarrassed?” Sherlock quips.

“No, no. I don’t want them to know my secret weapon. Since I’m the captain, they’ll all wanna join, and then I’ll lose my advantage, you see? Do you think _you_ could teach me? Maybe this could just be our little secret? I…I can’t pay you much though.” John finishes, a little sadly, but internally screaming at his cleverness.

 

Sherlock stands mutely for a moment, his only movement the rapid blinking of his long black eyelashes. “They never lock the studio, and it’s empty from the hours of nine pm until one am when the cleaning crew comes through. I could tutor you then, and I have no need of money- my parents provide for all of my financial needs. There is something that I want, though.”

Sherlock is cut off by John’s enthusiastic reply. “What? Anything! Just tell me.”

“Corpses.” Sherlock says.

“Like dead humans? Aww, man- are you some kind of dendrophiliac?” John asks, scrunching his face up in obvious disgust.

“Ha! No, that’s someone who has sex with trees. I think you mean necrophilia, which is certainly _not_ one of my desires. Not in the slightest, but you see, there _was_ an…incident…during the first week of school, and they’ve banned me from all the anatomy labs. But I need to get in there for scientific reasons,” Sherlock explains. “I’m solving a crime,” he finishes with both eyebrows raised seductively.

John isn’t sure if he’s more intrigued or disgusted, but chooses to feed his curiosity. “A crime? Really, what kind? Are you a detective?”

“Certainly not, police officers are all idiots. I do, however, believe that I can solve the murder of one of our professors, but I must get into the labs.” Sherlock’s frustration is becoming evident. “So, John. Do we have a deal or not?”

 

John moves closer, crowing with delight. “It’s a deal! I can absolutely make that happen. My roommate Mike is a T.A. for the head of the department, and he owes me so many favours!”

“Fine. Tomorrow night, 9pm. Don’t be late,” Sherlock says curtly, and then turns to leave.

“Wait!” John blurts out, and Sherlock reels around. “Wanna go for coffee right now? I could really use a cup.”

The corners of Sherlock’s mouth perk up, a flicker of blush flashing across his face before being quickly replaced by his standard air of indifference. “I’ve just come from another particularly grueling rehearsal, and I reek. I don’t think anyone will want to be within a meter of me right now.”

John steps into Sherlock's personal space, and gave a tiny sniff, “I think you smell…wonderful,” and gave Sherlock a toothy grin.

This time Sherlock’s blush is not so easily dispatched as he crosses his arms in front of his chest, glaring at the ground. “I…I… have to go…practice my violin.”

“You play an instrument as well? Wow, I bet you’re an artistic genius as well as being a proper one,” John gushes.

 

Sherlock clears his already clear throat, “I must be off, goodbye John. Until tomorrow.” This time when he turns, he does not stop as he practically runs away into the night, scarf flapping in his haste.

John watches him flee, until he can no longer see the outline of his shape in the dark. _Shite! I scared him off._ John criticizes himself internally for being too forward, until he remembers that Sherlock agreed to meet him tomorrow.

 _Guess, it wasn’t a total failure_ , he concludes, _although now I have to learn ballet_. John smacks himself in the forehead. _I’m never drinking again_ , he decides as he stumbles home, his heart fluttering oddly in his chest.


	3. Practice

John stares down at his socked and tangled feet, silently willing them to cooperate and move correctly through the uncomfortable positions.

“Head up!” Sherlock shouts, and marches over to the barre, his long arms thrown out in frustration. “John, you will never learn your positions properly if you insist on studying the floor.”

 

“Er...I can’t help it. My body just isn’t used to moving this way,” John practically growls, hands shoved obstinately into the pockets of his maroon jogging bottoms. “I honestly thought this would be a breeze to learn. It always looks so easy on the telly.” He lifts his ash-blonde head to give Sherlock a baleful look. “Don’t give up on me yet, alright?” There is no longer any trace of his earlier bravado, and the sight of Sherlock’s beautiful face wipes his mind clear of all other thoughts.

 

Sherlock nods slightly, and his mouth shifts into a smirk. “Watch a lot of ballet, do you?”

“Nooooo,” John replies emphatically, plopping down the floor in a huff, “my mum danced a bit when she was young, and she hoped my sister would really get into it and be a dancer.” He gives a small laugh and leans back against the glass, crossing his legs at the ankles. “But since that didn’t work out, she made us watch it all the time!”

 

Sherlock moves closer and takes a seat mere centimetres from John. “I take it your sister was about as clumsy as you?” he interjects jovially.

John knocks Sherlock’s shoulder lightly with his own. “Hey, it’s my first lesson! Go easy on a guy,” he continues, smiling broadly and visibly relaxing. “Nah, Harry wasn’t interested in learning routines, she was just there for the pretty ballerinas.”

Sherlock shifts to his side, head tipped so his bushy curls press into the glass, and stares intently. It’s a move that makes John’s pulse spike, and suddenly his hands folded in his lap become very interesting. In a lowered voice that doesn’t echo in the cavernous room, Sherlock replies “so, you’re saying she’s a lesbian?”

 

“Hmm?” John was so busy trying not think about Sherlock’s lean and muscled form, and how perfect it was when he was relaxed and all his attention was focused on John. So much so, that he almost missed the quiet question. “Oh..uh.. yeah, that’s when my parents found out, she was like eight or something, and they’ve been fighting about it ever since.” The nerves get the best of him, and words tumble out of his mouth before he can think of them. “My mom still cries about it, she thinks we don’t know, but her eyes always give her away, you know? Plus, she still tries to get Harry to be all girly, but that’s just another heart-breaking lost cause.”

 

John smiles sadly, thinking about his brave and troubled older sister who never gave in. “I honestly don’t understand why it bothers my Mum so much. I mean, who cares if she likes women? It just gave us more to talk about, ya know?” He finally dares to glance up at Sherlock’s open and thoroughly beautiful face. “Yeah, I bet those prima ballerina’s are all over you- am I right?” John offers up, sticking an elbow out to poke Sherlock in the ribs conspiratorially. “Not really my area,” Sherlock answers with a frown.

 

“Oh,” John shrugs, opting to continue his onslaught of personal information for fear of where more questions might lead. “Well, then there’s my father, he’s a piece of work,” he scrunches his nose in disgust. “Well, let’s just say he copes with the whole 'gay' thing by pressuring me to be a star athlete and spending all his free time down at the pub with his mates. Come to think of it, Harry spends a bit too much time there as well…” He trails off, and shakes his head, “But, no matter, it’s better since she’s moved out, 'cuz she’s a meaner drunk than he is! Oh, the fights... wooo! Yeah, I certainly do not miss those!” John forces out a fake-sounding chuckle, and stops jabbering as he catches Sherlock glancing at the clock.

 

“Oh fuck... damn, Sherlock, I’m so sorry. That’s a lot of family stuff, and sorry, wow- you did NOT want to know all that. I’m terribly sorry mate.  I guess I needed to get it out. Again, sorry. I don’t really have any close friends, and you’re such a good listener. Sorry, but thanks for listening.”  John smiles widely up at him, as if a weight had been lifted from his soul. Sherlock is struck mute at the glorious sight of a full-tilt John smile. “We could talk about your family if you want to even up the score, so to speak,” John offers earnestly.

 

With Sherlock’s only reaction being a series of fluttering eyelashes, John reaches a hand up to rub the back of his own neck, and glare downward at the smooth hardwood floor between them. “Right, stupid idea, sorry. Hey, if you ever want me to shut up, just tell me okay?” Sherlock now easily catches on to John’s nervousness as blue eyes peer up at him through stubby blonde lashes, but he makes no comment.

 

It is, of course, wildly unusual for Sherlock to be without a quip of some sort, but this is unfamiliar territory for him. _How do I proceed?_ he wonders. _On the one hand, it would be quite nice to have another boy know the truth about me, especially someone that knows what it’s like to have parents who have difficulty dealing with their gay children. On the other hand, I know exactly what happens when other boys discover my truth, and it has been...highly unpleasant._

 

Without warning, hateful images from dark places of his mind flash into his awareness and threaten to overwhelm his senses, but Sherlock beats them back, dismissing the painful memories. He decides this is not the time to let anything out, not until he can figure out this new boy- this boy who he thought he’d have figured out by now, but who somehow still remains a mystery.

 

Sherlock waves a loose hand in-between them, resolving not to inform John of anything personal until more data can be collected and analyzed about John’s true character; even though John’s already made it quite clear that he isn’t fazed by his sister’s orientation, Sherlock has already suffered far too much to let loose such a terrifying secret without first being absolutely certain that he can trust John. After all, this is only their third interaction, and surely personal confessions can be held off for at least another three or four meetings, he hypothesizes.

 

“Don’t worry,” Sherlock finally responds. “It’s fine. Now, let’s go back to the four positions.” Standing with an effortless grace, Sherlock twirls around, his back facing John, and begins to demonstrate the basic moves again.

 

John groans loudly as he clamber to his feet, “Sherlock” he whines, “it’s too hard! Isn’t there something else we could try?” as he makes another failed effort to mimic Sherlock’s movements.

  
Sherlock twists his head back to survey John’s awkward form, his mouth a tense line. “Fine. Come closer.”

John huffs. “Any closer and I’ll be smashed up against you.”  
“Precisely, John. Press your front to my back, copy my movements, and you won’t be able to look down.

John’s jaw drops at the suggestion. “Uh...I dunno Sherlock, d'you really think that'll help?” John stalls, scrutinizing Sherlock’s thin white v-neck and soft grey tights which leave almost nothing to the imagination. In fact, they highlight all the delectable curves of his perfect body, and John is frozen in place.

 

“John. JOHN!” Sherlock says sternly, rolling his eyes.

John is finally shaken out of his lust-filled thoughts and recovers quickly. “What? I heard you, I just don’t see the purpose.”

 

“John, I know you don’t know me well, but I can assure you that I don’t do ANYTHING unless it has an express purpose. Are you not an athlete?” Sherlock asks hypothetically. “You must know something about muscle memory; this will help you carve out the neural pathway for these new movements. Come on, we don’t have all night,” Sherlock says impatiently, glancing at the large wall clock again, “it’s already a quarter to midnight. Shake a leg, John.”

 

John wipes a hand down his face, and it lingers at his jaw, finally dropping as he takes a deep breath and steps into Sherlock’s space, shuffling closer until his body is pressed up against Sherlock's taller and much more thinly-dressed form. John cranes his neck back, and stammers a little as he asks, “like this?” while attempting to push all thoughts from his mind, particularly the ones concerning the fact that there are only two pieces of cotton between their naked bodies.

“Precisely,” Sherlock answers, his voice wavering ever-so-slightly. “Now, wrap your arms around mine and follow my every movement.” John follows the command, curving around Sherlock completely, and pokes his nose into Sherlock’s back as they begin to move in tandem.

 

John takes a hearty inhale, a cacophony of scents overtaking his senses: floral soap, sharp sweat, and stale cigarettes. Instantly intoxicated by the smell, John relaxes around the unique scent that he innately realizes is indicative of no one except for Sherlock. “You smoke?” John asks, mid-movement.

Sherlock barks out a laugh. “Yes! Are you smelling me, John?”

“Well, I don’t really have much of a choice, now do I?” John replies with a feigned strop. “It’s...it’s nice though,” he finishes quietly, as they continue to move through the poses at a languid pace.

  
Sherlock can feel the blush creeping across his cheeks, and he is suddenly thankful he’s facing away so that John can’t see it. “Thank you, they help me think,” he says, clearing his throat firmly. “Now, focus John. These are the most important positions. First...second...third...and fourth. Again, stay with me, John. First...second...third...and fourth.”

 

John wraps his fingers around Sherlock’s forearms and continues to move with him, still stiffly and unsure of himself. He instinctively tries to look down at his feet, but Sherlock’s back prevents him from doing so.

“Good, keep up with me, come on John, focus!” Sherlock commands, his body winding tighter as he feels John relax more with every repetition- He’s positively taut with tension from having John’s body pressed so firmly against his own. Sherlock can feel his blood pulsing downward as his arousal grows, and he practically jumps out of John’s grasp.

 

“Alright! Well, I think that’s enough for today. Keep practicing.” Sherlock doesn’t turn around as he jogs toward the exit.

“Wait, Sherlock, it’s not one yet, where are you going?” John shivers slightly, uncertain of whether it is due to the body warmth suddenly torn from him, or out of fear. _Did I do something wrong?_ he wonders.

 

Sherlock steps completely out of the door, then leans only his head back in. “I have an...uh...prior engagement. I’ll see you tomorrow at five in the anatomy lab, correct?”

 

John’s face is a mask of confusion at Sherlock’s abrupt ending of the lesson. “Y--yeah, room B, Mike said he’ll leave the door open for us, but I have to stay with you. He seems to know you, but wouldn’t answer any of my questions, just said not to leave your side. Hey, what did you do?”

 

“No time for idle chit-chat. Must be off. Goodbye, John!” Sherlock disappears altogether, leaving John reeling.

 

 _This is the second time Sherlock’s ran away from me. Do I smell?_ John wonders, idly lifting an arm up to sniff his armpits. _Hmm...eugh!_ he thinks, quickly dropping it, _no wonder he fled, I reek! Ugh!_ Padding somberly over to collect his catch-all bag, he chastises himself. _First I show up drunk, then I show up stinking to high heavens, no wonder he wants to keep his distance. Note to self: take a fucking shower after rugby practice!_

 

John levels a plaintive sigh and rubs his neck as he leaves the studio. _Damn though, Sherlock smelled wonderful_. _Hmmm...I don’t think I’ve ever thought about the smell of another guy, is that weird? Nah, it’s just 'cuz it’s new, I'm sure…._ John refuses to muse any longer, hitches his bag across his body, and runs all the way back to his room.

 

 


End file.
